Who Do You Love(112)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“I have a suggestion,” she said. “When is their school year over?”

“The first Thursday in June.” The date—ridiculously early, in my opinion—had been on my mind for weeks as I’d scrambled to find day camps that started before July.

“Why don’t you take some time off and come to Florida?” she asked. “I’m sure your boss will let you take a few weeks’ leave, all things considered.”

“All things considered,” I repeated, and struggled to push the words through my brain. It was like shoving clumps of Delaney’s Play-Doh through the plastic extruder, hoping they’d yield some meaning.

“I will help Delaney pack,” said Adele, who’d come into the room with a pad and a pen, ready to take dinner orders. A judgmental tone crept into her voice. “Last time all she put in her suitcase was stuffed animals and glitter glue and three princess costumes.”

“I remember.” Last time had been in November, when we’d made a pilgrimage to Disney World to celebrate Delaney’s fifth birthday. While Jay tried to coax Adele to ride at least one of the roller coasters, I’d taken Delaney for her big present, a session with a stylist at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique. Her “fairy godmother in training,” a heavyset teenager in a blue-and-white gown and apron combination, had asked, “Did you make your list for Santa yet, princess?” Delaney’s nose wrinkled as she considered the question. “I did NOT make a list for Santa,” Delaney finally said, in her sweetly piping voice, “because I am a Jewish princess.” I’d laughed so hard that I’d inhaled some of my soda and Delaney had stared at me in alarm and irritation, demanding to know what was so funny. Later, in our suite at the Polynesian Village, with fireworks blooming outside in the dark and the girls asleep on the bed, Delaney still dressed as Cinderella, with glitter in her hair, and Adele clutching her Mickey Mouse ears, Jay had put his arm around my waist and said, “This is so great.”

Had he been with Amy even then? And what would I do about work? There was only room for one of us at FAS, and I hoped it would be me. I loved my job. Maybe that had been the problem. Defying Jay’s wishes, I’d gone back to work after six weeks at home with each of my girls, leaving them with an extremely capable nanny for eight hours a day, and unlike my husband, I’d never learned the trick of leaving my work at the door. Jay would set his briefcase down in the entryway and not utter a word—or, as best I could tell, entertain a thought—about his clients or cases, or his annual performance evaluation, whereas I was always dragging messy stacks of folders into the living room, and leaving my cell phone on in case my clients needed to reach me. I thought that Jay’s nonchalance was the byproduct of working at his father’s firm. Even if he failed to meet the benchmark for billable hours, even if he screwed up spectacularly and got himself accused of malpractice, as one of the partners once had, he’d never lose his job. I didn’t think I’d ever lose mine, either, but I knew that my clients needed me available and at my best. Maybe a son had been arrested; maybe the gas had been shut off; maybe a woman who’d already put in a twelve-hour day needed help finishing her homework for the class she was taking at night. A woman of valor, I would think sometimes . . . and when Jay chided me for staying up late or texting one of my ladies when I could have been joining him in whatever he was currently watching, I would tell him that it was important for the girls to see me do my job, to know what I did, to know who I worked with and that not everyone was as privileged as they were.

“What about after?” I asked Nana, who patted my hand reassuringly.

“You’ll get through it,” she said, leaving out the part I already knew—because you’re a mother now. Because mothers don’t have a choice.

Andy

2014

New York

Mr. Landis?” Andy’s latest hire, a kid named Paul Martindale, was standing in front of him looking even more nervous than he normally did. Paul was nineteen, a part-time student at CCNY, tall, pimply, and terrified. If a woman asked him where to find the lightbulbs or the paint display or the gardening mulch, he’d look at her like she’d pulled a knife out of her diaper bag, and if a man asked him anything, he’d stammer, “Let me get the manager,” and run.

“Yes, Paul,” Andy said patiently, and wondered, again, whether moving him from the overnight shift to days had been a mistake.

“Phone call for you.”

“I’ll be right there,” said Andy, and walked toward his office at the back of the store.